Of Serpents and Spiders
by Ceris Malfoy
Summary: He wonders if said "friend" will allow him to take his spiders with him. ...he figures probably not. ...That doesn't stop the spiders from coming anyway, much to his delight." Answer to my own challenge - see profile for details. TMR/HP
1. Of Silence and Learning

**Well, my first chapter of anything uploaded since 2008. I'm actually kinda happy with myself - I've managed to start writing again. ^^ For awhile there art had stolen my heart, soul, and mind, and I wasn't writing _anything_. It sucked, majorly. Um, I will be trying to update my other stories, but I wouldn't hold my breath if i were you. It's been awhile, and I don't write the same way anymore. **

**In other news, this fic is a response to my own challenge. Details can be found in my profile. Look for the bold heading The Spiders in the Cupboard if you're interested in taking a look. This fic will be rather short - it's mostly a series of drabbles that tell a much larger story. **

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter will, fortunately, never belong to me. I say fortunately, because not only would I have never finished the first book, but I also would have made it nothing but hardcore yaoi. Gotta love that TMR/HP action. **

* * *

**Of Serpents and Spiders**

**_Part 1: Of Silence and Learning_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

It was dark.

Not that he knew what darkness was. He can not recall having seen light before, after all. But, still, it seems as if he can remember a time when he could actually _see_.

He can't see anything now – there's nothing but empty blackness in his cupboard.

Not that he knows that's where he is.

He is hungry, and that is a familiar, gnawing pain inside of him. But it is also a foreign one, for he thinks he might remember a time when he was happily full.

It is silent, and this he knows well. He _does_ remember noise, you see – screaming, whispering, whimpering, rushing noise. Of all the points of his continued existence, it is the silence that he welcomes most.

* * *

He knows what light is now.

Not that it means much, given that it is almost always dark.

He is let out of his confinement (which is how he learns of The Cupboard) twice a day. Only twice – once in the early morning before the sun has fully decided to rise, and once again long after the screaming, pudgy creature has been sent upstairs. Both times he is given some food (not much) and a much-needed bathroom break.

His hunger is only slightly soother, kept on a fragile chain that threatens to snap and let the hunger consume him.

After his needs have been met, he is pulled aside by the large, round creature with the beady eyes and deep, gravely sounds and given a lecture.

He has never been taught how to read, or to write, or how to speak, or how to _listen_. But he knows what is being said regardless, and knows that he never will be taught.

And so, the silence that is broken only when he dreams (remembers) continues, and he is, for now, content.

* * *

He lives with his aunt and uncle, and knows, for once, for sure, what that means.

It means that his parents (light and food and desperate wailing) are dead, and are never coming back. He thinks that this is supposed to depress him, but how can he miss what he has never had?

He isn't quite sure, but when his (drunk, but how would he know that?) Aunt confesses the truth behind his existence in their house, pleading brokenly for forgiveness that he does not know of, and so can not give, he does learn something else – he has a name (Harry) and that his Aunt is desperate to get him out of this house.

He is not quite sure why he suddenly has the pressing urge to rip out his Aunt's tongue with his bare hands, or why the spiders in his cupboard flee.

* * *

Something has changed.

His Uncle was almost always gone, and his cousin, Dudley, was missing.

His Aunt was a bundle of high-sprung nerves, always jumping at the smallest noise.

He was always kept locked up now.

Beyond that, he could see now. It didn't matter that it was dark in his cupboard – he guessed his eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness.

He has friends, of sorts, now as well. There are hundreds of spiders living with him, and they are quite amusing.

He likes to watch them weave patterns in their webs – no one pattern was the same, and each one seems to bring about some different effect. He tries to copy them – tracing his finger in the air over and over in similar patterns, but he always fails to produce the same effect.

That was alright though, because he thinks he will get it soon.

* * *

He was awakened by a presence – it was strange and not at all welcome. He soundlessly slipped off the small cot and slid under it to the far corner, wondering why he felt the need to do so.

Outside of his cupboard, he could hear a stranger's voice – male and angry – snarling viciously at his Aunt. He could also hear his Aunt's voice, whimpering and pleading. He can't make out what they are saying, but he has a decent idea – his Aunt has finally managed to get in touch with his mother's "friend".

He wonders absently if said "friend" would allow him to take his spiders with him.

When the cupboard door is abruptly vanished and a scowling, sallow face takes it's place, and a harsh but silky voice tells him to "get out from under that disease-ridden mattress, you stupid boy," he figures probably not.

That doesn't stop the spiders from coming anyway, much to his delight.

**

* * *

**

**There will be more, as I've actually got most of this written out before I even thought about posting it. Lol. This will be a TMR/HP fic. Just warning you people. **


	2. Of Silence and Noise

**Yatta! I'm on a roll people. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Of Serpents and Spiders**

**_Part 2: Of Silence and Noise_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

He is fascinated by this "Severus Snape". The man is a complex mixture of contempt and outright hatred, tempered barely by a strange sense of protectiveness.

He is not sure where this Severus Snape has taken him. All he is sure of is that it is vast, and ugly, and _loud_.

He is surrounded by people constantly, all of them practically tripping over themselves to offer their apologies and sympathies. Some poke and prod, trying to see what is so wrong with him that he will not speak; others just cajole and plead and yell and threaten.

He refuses to speak to any of them. He has not been taught how to, but it is easy enough to figure out – he is not unintelligent, and he understands the language easily enough, having listened to it hissed at him in anger often enough. No, he doesn't speak.

He listens though, and through listening has discovered two key facts.

1. He is 8 years old.

2. Albus Dumbledore is a liar.

* * *

They teach him things. How to read and write, how to function by himself in polite society, maths, and art.

They also teach him about magic, something he is sure they don't intend he learn just yet. But he sees them as they weave patterns in the air with their sticks, sees the effects these patterns induce, hears the words they speak that appear to be meaningless and strange.

He thinks about the patterns his spiders are still weaving in their webs and he thinks about his continued failure to reproduce the effects they promise. He thinks perhaps if he had a stick of his own….

* * *

He is a quick learner, or so they say. They say many things, though, so he is uncertain as to their truth. They also say that he is a "squib". They say that he is too strange, too abnormal to be Lily and James' child. They say that his continued tracing of "invisible" patterns is a sure sign of mental instability. They say he is too intelligent to not be able to speak when nothing physically impairs him.

He smiles often when they renew their attempts to make him.

His spiders continue to weave patterns, and he continued to trace them. But now he has also started to trace the patterns he sees the others weave with their sticks.

* * *

He has started to accompany Severus everywhere.

The older man is highly irritable and often makes rather cruel remarks, but makes no move to stop him from doing so. Severus is a complex man, but an honest one, and he likes that.

Severus blusters quite a bit, but the man makes no move to force him away, and so he stays. He is silent and still, and the man always eventually forgets he's even there, which is nice.

He has discovered he likes being ignored. It makes it so much easier to watch and listen, something that he has discovered people rarely do.

Severus is one of those rare few who watches, even if he doesn't always listen.

* * *

He is slightly disgruntled to realize that their patterns are easily copied, and that the effects of those patterns are easily reproduced.

He did not mean to get caught though – he had traced a pattern he had seen one of the women using, and had succeeded. Loudly, much to his chagrin.

They call him a prodigy, "another Merlin", and they sigh in relief that his is not a "squib".

He wished they would just be silent for once – their incessant chatter is annoying and leaves him wishing for the dark confines of his cupboard. At least there it was silent.

Severus no longer yells at him, just holds open the door to his study or his workroom when he needs to get away from all of them and _hide_. Severus ignores him really, and he thinks he might love the man for it, were it not for the fact that he doesn't know what love is.

He looked it up, though, and thinks that it is a waste of time.

* * *

He goes exploring in the dead of night.

The place where he is at is called "Hogwarts", and it is a school. He supposes that is why there are so few people left now – the students went home.

The school is supposed to be his new home. Such a funny word, home. The Cupboard was not a home, and neither is this Hogwarts, for all Albus Dumbledore seems to believe he thinks it is.

But he is curious about this new "home", and so he explores. It is silent at night, and large, and filled with many different species of spiders.

He likes all of them.

They flock to him, hitching rides on his clothes and in his hair, and he lets them. He no longer feels right without them there.

* * *

**So, the second installment. Not nearly as heavy-hitting as the first one, but not without its own charm. ^^ The next installment should involve some actual dialogue, but definitely not on Harry's part.**


	3. Of Lessons and Changes

**I'm at Katsucon, and OMG is the hotel sah-weeet! It has gold-inlaid marble flooring, a tiny village popped dead-center in the damn thing, and it's own little mini-mart. It's fucking incredible. This chapter wasn't exactly planned, it sorta hit me like ten minutes ago. Lol. But it worked out better than what I had originally planned, so I'm using it. ^^**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Of Serpents and Spiders**

**_Part 3: Of Lessons and Changes_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

He watches the students go back and forth like waves on the sand, and wonders at the point of it all. He wonders whether they tire of always going, whether they long to remain in one place.

He does. He tires of these constant "trips" Dumbledore constantly forces on him. The old man (liar) takes him to visit many families, presumably to find one to give him to. He hates them all, especially the red-haired one. Although the twins were interesting, the rest of them were entirely controlled by Dumbledore, and he will have nothing to do with the old man.

So he is difficult to place: quiet and dismissive with no kind look to give any of them. Most of the families refuse to take him in once they notice his spiders – he has over 50 of them at any one time hitching a ride, no matter how often the old man tries to rid him of them.

He likes that he can infuriate the man by doing nothing more than existing as he is.

* * *

He makes a new friend today – a snake. He picks it up and caries it around with him like it was one of his spiders. It talks to him, a constant but quiet litany of words that soothes him. He finds it strange that no one else can understand the snake.

He goes to Severus and holds up the snake. The snake asks why he is being lifted, and he answers softly, fascinated by the expression on Severus' face as he does so.

The fear is puzzling, but the shock can easily be explained – this _is_ the first time he has spoken, after all.

Quickly he is shoved into the man's office, and told expressly never to reveal that he can understand the serpent tongue, let alone speak it. He is confused, and tilts his head in question. Severus explains that what he hears is not English, but rather Parseltongue – serpent tongue – and the only other recorded speaker was the one who slaughtered his parents.

He nods, and leaves.

He needs to think.

* * *

He wanders one day into the forest he is expressly forbidden to enter.

He is not sure why they lead him there, but he follows his spiders – they often lead him to interesting places and even more interesting things.

So he follows them, never looking up, his gaze locked on the wave of spiders before him. So he never sees the many eyes that watch him hungrily until it is entirely too late.

"Hagrid? Is that you?"

He looks up and sees the largest spider he has ever seen. It is old, and powerful, and very, _very_ hungry.

"What is a child doing in our forest?" The spider comes closer, and he steps back. He looks to his spiders for comfort, but they are still before him, frozen and silent. He looks back up, and finds the old one nearer still.

"Well, child? What are you doing here?"

He opens his mouth, and all that escapes is a breathless, soundless squeak. He steps back again, and the old one moves even closer, and this time his spiders react. They rush back to him, running over his clothes and skin to find their regular perches on his hair and shoulders and in his sleeves.

He feels better with them there, less afraid, less alone.

He opens his mouth again, and this time an answer leaves it. "I followed my spiders," he says, quiet and slow, carefully pronouncing the words. Whereas Parseltongue leaves his mouth without thought, easy and true, English takes careful precision. He must think about which language he is speaking in, which he finds strange because until the snake, he has never spoken or listened to Parseltongue.

"_Your_ spiders?" There is the beginnings of anger in the old one's voice, and he wonders why.

"Yes, sir," he murmurs. He runs a finger down the back of the large black one that has crawled off of his head and into his open hand. "They protect me, keep me company, teach me." He looks at the old one, and tilts his head. "I suppose I should say that I am their human."

The old one is looking at him strangely, and he wonders why.

* * *

The exceptionally large man is called Hagrid, and he both loves and hates the man. He hates him because he is as loud and indiscreet as most of the school combined, but he loves him because the man treats him no different than one his exotic pets.

Hagrid even officially introduces him to the old one, who he learns is called Aragog. Every chance he can get, he is dragging Hagrid to see the spiders. He _likes_ the old spider. The spider is intrigued by him as well, or at least he thinks so. Aragog likes to watch him trace the patterns his spiders had taught him in the air. He likes to show them off to Aragog, because Aragog is capable of correcting his little mistakes – an line off here, a small twist forgotten there. And suddenly, the patterns that he is tracing begin to show the effects he has seen a thousand times, but has never been able to reproduce.

He is happy.

* * *

The spiders aren't the only ones searching him out now.

The snakes show up at random intervals, and some are strange ones he has never seen before, not even in his books. They all talk to him, and some even promise to teach him their brand of magic when he is older.

Some of the strange ones promise to teach him how to do the "stick magic" without the need of tracing patterns, with only the need of intent and their language as a focus.

One snake in particular, a large female python, has moved into his room. She is quiet and doesn't speak much, but she is always watching. She has a power he has only seen in humans, and he wonders why.

But he doesn't ask. He thinks she would lie to him anyway.

He thinks this one doesn't like him much. He thinks this one already has a human she would much rather be around, but stays close to him because either he is the only one that speaks to her, or because she thinks he's a threat to her human. He is not quite sure which option he prefers.

And he does speak to her. He tells her of the spiders and his cupboard, how he wanted to rip out his Aunt's tongue and how Albus Dumbledore is a liar, but Severus Snape is someone who can be trusted. How Aragog is interested in his development, and how he has begun to try and create his own patterns in his imaginary webs.

He only wishes he wasn't so unnerved by the way the female sperpent's eyes often gleam a hellfire-crimson when he does.

* * *

**Yes, there will be horcruxes in this fic. Not quite as many, but they will be there. Yes, Harry is one, as is Nagini, but after that there's only two more. I leave that for you to guess.**

**I feel I should warn you that, no, I will not be using Harry's name to refer to him at all throughout this story, unless, of course, someone is directly addressing him. **


	4. Of Auras and Wands, pt1

**Sorry about the long wait - I've been having a bit of a struggle with this particular section, as this section is where all the really important parts happen. (Figures.) Almost all of my issues revolve around just where I want this story to go - on one hand, I could stick with my original plan, and wait until Tom is in the picture before I write anything particularly naughty. On the other, I could couple Voldie's obsession with the BWL with Quirrel being a sick bastard. Any thoughts?**

**Until I make my mind up on the issue, I've decided to split this section into two parts, if only just to reassure the people who are reading this that it is _not_ dead, and will be continued. **

**Oh, and I thought I should mention that the Gregorovitch mentioned in this section is _NOT_ cannon. He's an OC, I guess, created for the sole purpose of being a creep. Since in cannon, the real Gregorovitch has been retired for quite a while, I gave him some randomly related dude who shared his last name and profession. ^^;**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine. Lol.**

**

* * *

**************

Of Serpents and Spiders

**_Part 4, Section A: Of Auras and Wands_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

He is to attend Hogwarts this year. He is not particularly thrilled with the idea – the mere thought of rooming with others leaves him strangely nauseous.

Compounding his nausea is the fact that the Headmaster has been eyeing him contemplatively for weeks on end. He does not like this, fears it even, as he is quite positive that whatever the old man has planned for him does not bode well at all.

* * *

"He is not compatible with any of my wands, Albus. You'll have to look elsewhere."

He is vastly amused at the look on Dumbledore's face at Ollivander's rather abrupt statement. He does not particularly mind that the old man doesn't even attempt to search for a match – there is a strange aura surrounding the man that he can see is connected to each wand in this store.

"Surely you must be mistaken?" Dumbledore has regained composure, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance. He wonders if he is going to get stuck with a wrong wand, as the headmaster obviously has an idea as to which wand is to be his.

"I'm never mistaken about such things, Albus. This boy has an odd flavor to his magic that I've never been introduced to. As such, I have not been able to create a wand that is suitable." The wandmaker turns his strange, silvered, orb-like eyes to him, and he is fascinated by the way the man's aura flares and reaches out to caress his own.

He croons softly, ignoring Dumbledore's incredulous gaze, and closes his eyes. This sensation is unlike anything he's ever felt before, and it is soothing.

"Yes," Ollivander says. "Definitely a strange flavor." The wonderful aura withdraws from his, and he opens his eyes, feeling strangely bereft. The wandmaker is still studying him, and he stares back, entranced.

"Perhaps," the man continues, "you should try Gregorovitch – he deals in strange combinations." A small smile of amusement twitches the wandmaker's lips. "I will even call ahead for you."

Dumbledore, however, doesn't appear ready to quit. "And what about _that_ wand?"

The wandmaker turns a suddenly annoyed gaze to Dumbledore, and there is a moment of silence that is both awkward and lethal. "I suppose you won't leave until you see the incompatibility with your own eyes, then?"

Albus nods.

"Very well, wait here." The wandmaker leaves, but is not gone for long. When Ollivander returns it is with the briskness of one seriously considering hexing the next to annoy. Ollivander holds out an open box with a rather lovely wand in it.

"11 inches, holly and phoenix feather, nice and supple." The wandmaker's voice is brittle and snapping with irritation, but he understands that although Ollivander is talking to him, the tone is meant for Albus. Nonetheless, he approaches with caution and gently takes the wand held out to him, and stands there, gazing from one wrinkled face to another.

"Go on, Harry," Dumbledore says gently, eyes glittering. "Give it a wave." There is the beginnings of smug victory on Dumbledore's face, as if sure that Ollivander was mistaken.

He waves the wand, and feels rather silly about it – the wand is a dead stick in his hand, just as Ollivander said it would be.

There isn't even a spark.

* * *

Gregorovitch is a tall, hawk-like man with lank, black hair, sharp lavender eyes, and twitchy hands.

He does not like the man. Gregorovitch's magic is sickly and feels odd, feels _wrong_, as if the man's magic is twisted and broken and hurt. He was not aware that such a thing is possible, and the realization that it is has him reeling.

"An odd case, he tells me," the man murmurs, lavender eyes bright and fevered, hands twitching, fingers moving as if independent of thought. Gregorovitch's sickly aura tries to touch his own, much like Ollivander's, but his magic instinctively shrinks back.

"Yes, an odd case indeed. Instinctive," the man continues. Those sharp eyes narrow, and a strange, bitter smile pulls at thin, malformed lips. "Powerful, indeed, but passive – content to wait and watch and _listen_."

He wanders if seeking a wand from this man is such a good idea. Surely he could continue to do his magic as he has been? He turns his wary gaze to Dumbledore and can't help the gasp that leaves his lips – the Headmaster is staring at Gregorovitch like the wandmaker is the devil personified.

"There aren't many like you, Harry James Potter," the wandmaker says. The wandmaker's voice is close, too close, and too late he realizes that he has removed his attention from the _threat_. He swiftly turns his gaze to Gregorovitch, just in time to witness the man's magic forcefully clench around his own.

His eyes squeeze shut and a silent, gasping moan escapes his mouth as pain – crippling, all-encompassing pain – tears through him. It feels like the man's magic is shredding him apart.

"Sensitive," the man mutters to himself, strange eyes glinting. "Too sensitive by far, yes." Gregorovitch's hands still. "Ah! There we are – how interesting. Yes, yes. We have just the wand for you, _Harry_!"

Suddenly, the man's magic recedes, and he is left with the sick feeling that he has been violated.

And more than the sick feeling of violation is the anger, no _rage_, that burns through his veins and causes his magic to erupt from its passive state. He has always been a quick leaner, and now he will share just how quick a learner he truly is.

Gregorovitch has barely turned to go fetch the wand before his magic swarms over the man, ripping and tearing and shredding and _burning_ the man's own magic, determined to pay back every last inch of pain tenfold.

Gregorovitch whimpers, and the sound is sweet to his ears; the sight of the man's trembling muscles is a balm to his fevered sight; the _feel_ of the man's sick aura desperately and ineffectively struggling against his own a sweet, sweet reward.

When he feels properly vindicated, he draws his aura back, but keeps it alive and active, threatening and defending.

Gregorovitch shudders, then turns to face him. There is fear on the wandmaker's face, and he smiles brightly. The man bows to him, still shivering, fear staining lavender eyes dark violet. "Perhaps a different wand would be better," he whispers. "Not nearly as passive as you would have others believe, are you Mr. Potter?"

His smile becomes a sharp grin.

When the wandmaker has disappeared to the backroom to fetch his wand, Dumbledore places a hand on his shoulder, and grips, hard. "You are playing with fire, Harry. I do not presume to understand what just happened here, but-"

He shrugs Dumbledore's hand off his shoulder, and turns to face the old man.

He does not know what expression Dumbledore sees on his face, but he wishes he did – one look at his face and Dumbledore shuts up, mouth clenched tight and eyes unable to hide the fear.

He thinks he would like the expression to be permanent.

* * *

He stands with the other first years, and knows that he is finally in hell. The other students are noisy, mostly unintelligent, and completely out of their league.

He sees them playing at being adults, playing a game of "better-than-you" learned at their parents' knees, and knows that these _children_ don't understand a bit of it. Having truly watched and listened, _he_ understands the game, and he thinks that is how it should be.

_**

* * *

**_

You are not nearly as like a spider as you would believe, little serpent

, the hat murmurs in his ear.

_Slytherin, then?_ he asks.

_**Oh, no, little serpent,**_ the hat chuckles._**You would tear them apart. No, I think perhaps you would be unsuitable for all the Houses, but that is neither here nor there. **_

_What House would you have me in then?_

_**The one where you will do the least amount of damage, of course. Let it be**_ "RAVENCLAW!"

He tilts his head, "As you wish," he mutters.

The hall is dead silent. To his surprise, and the utter horror of the entire school, Severus Snape is smiling.

* * *

**Stay tuned for section B!**


	5. Of Auras and Wands, pt2

**Alright, here's the second section to Year 1. It was supposed to be much shorter than it turned out to be - I kept adding little bits here and there, and it eventually got bigger than section 1. Lol. As such, it kinda feels a bit disjointed to me, and it doesn't seem to keep the same rhythym the rest of the fic does.**

**Although, that could be because of Quirrel - I compromised on what I wanted to happen with him, and left it deliberately vague. When in doubt,leave it vague, that's my motto. Lol.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Of Serpents and Spiders**

**_Part 4, Section B: Of Auras and Wands_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

He does not like Professor Quirrel.

The man is strange and Not Right. Quirrel stutters inconsistently, as if the man is faking the speech impediment, which makes no sense. In addition, the man's magic is as perverted and wrong as Gregorovitch's, but nearly as strong. Quirrel also has a stench to him – and despite what others may say, he knows that particular odor is not caused by garlic.

In his wanderings around the Forbidden Forest, he has come upon a half-devoured corpse or two, and the reek of decaying flesh is just as prominent on Quirrel as it is a corpse. However, according to every book on the subject he manages to find squirreled away in random spots on the library shelves, there are no such things as _sentient_ zombies in the Wizarding world.

So he watches Quirrel, silent and still and ever patient, waiting for the man to slip and reveal the game.

* * *

He hates living in a dorm.

In a dorm, there is _always_ others around, so he can't go anywhere or do anything without _someone_ getting nosy, which makes visiting Aragog or practicing his web-magic difficult at best. Add in the fact that the other boys in his room tend to freak out and _squish_ his spiders, and he was _Not Happy._

He thinks he will arrange several serious _accidents_ to befall every last one of his dorm-mates if they don't leave him or his spiders alone.

* * *

It takes less than a week for his resolve to crumble. The smell is horrible, and clings to everything Quirrel touches.

He stays behind class one day and silently hands the Professor a piece of parchment upon which he has scrawled:

_**You reek of rotting flesh. I do not know what you are doing, but I would suggest you get that looked at, professor.**_

He barely makes it to the door before the Professor calls out, "Detention, Potter. Tonight, after dinner. And 20 points from Ravenclaw," in a voice completely devoid of any stutter.

Strangely enough, the Professor's voice has changed octaves – it has now become much higher-pitched, sharp and brittle and _cutting_.

* * *

His detention with Quirrel gives him ample time to study the man.

Quirrel has apparently taken his advice to heart, as the odor is significantly lessened, allowing him to concentrate on more important matters.

Like how Quirrel's body is not the only thing rotting. The man's magic is a festering pit of death and disease.

He decides grimly that Quirrel has less than a year to live.

His detention passes swiftly – he is assigned lines on respecting authority – and he is dismissed quietly, again with no stutter. Quirrel's eyes watch him intently, but he does nothing more than pack his things.

It isn't until he's almost out the door that he feels it – the flair of an aura he is _familiar_ with. He pauses, uncertain, but continues on his way.

This will certainly not be the _last_ detention with the man.

* * *

Severus is a familiar, if still volatile, presence.

Every Saturday, if he does not have a detention with Quirrel, he tracks down the Potions Master and lingers in whatever room the man is habituating. There is something about the man that soothes him, makes him steady and collected when all he wants to do is fling his magic out and _hurt_.

It helps that his spiders are safe around the man – unless they sabotage the man's potions, Severus has a strictly live and let live policy when it comes to arachnids and serpents.

Severus takes him aside and teaches him the concept of silent magic – it is something he picks up quickly. He is glad, because he did not want to give away that he was _capable_ of speaking.

* * *

He goes to almost 15 detentions hosted by Professor Quirrel within the first month of school. He studies Quirrel carefully,

Underneath Quirrel's rotting magic is a secondary layer of magic, one that is thriving in the sickness and death that rides in Quirrel's own. This aura, despite its strength, is full of holes, as if someone has ripped out segments of it.

He is _suspicious_ of this secondary aura, because it only shows up when Quirrel has been in his presence for prolonged periods of time. He is _disturbed_ by this aura , because it calls to his magic – pulling gently, almost begging to join with his own.

What bothers him the most, though, is that he recognizes that ripped aura – it is the same as the one that clings to the female python that kept him company earlier.

* * *

He thinks long and hard over his situation.

He is noticing Quirrel's eyes lingering on him far more than is strictly appropriate, and is also noticing strange fluctuations in the man's aura that has nothing to do with the secondary one secreted away beneath it.

He is beginning to understand that he can 'read' people by watching their auras – provided that the magic of that person was strong enough – though he is not anywhere close to understanding which fluctuation goes with which impulse or thought or emotion.

What he _is_ sure of is that this can no longer be allowed to linger on. Something about the way Quirrel is watching him has him instinctively trying to avoid the man's gaze. Quirrel was becoming a threat to his continued peace of mind.

He will not tolerate such behavior.

* * *

It was the day before Halloween, and he is in yet another detention with Professor Quirrel.

He notices immediately that the man is acting oddly – muttering vaguely, twitching at every noise, and completely incapable of maintaining direct eye contact with him. He thinks the last particularly odd, as Quirrel has been watching him obsessively.

It is of no matter, though. He has had enough time to prepare – and like a fool, Quirrel has stumbled right into his trap.

He quickly begins to trace one of his most complex designs in the air before him – carefully pausing every now and then to see if Quirrel notices. Luckily, the man is completely out of it.

The pattern before him is trembling, almost but not quite tangible, and he knows that all he needs is one more ingredient. With a knowing smile, he gently uses his magic to coax that secondary aura out from beneath Quirrel's own. It eagerly latches onto his own aura, and follows his magic across the room – dragging a wildly protesting Quirrel with it.

He pays no attention to the man's ravings (something about a 'Master' and 'why?'). He is only concerned with dragging the man through the pulsing web. The aura that is latched onto his never once hesitates, pushes through the web that it probably never even notices, and drags poor Professor Quirrel right on through with it.

There is a scream, no _two_ screams, and then something slams into him and everything goes black.

* * *

He finds himself in the infirmary, staring vaguely at the white ceiling, wondering how he got here and what the hell went wrong.

"Harry," Dumbledore's voice is soft, and strangely kind, considering he just murdered the man's DADA teacher.

He turns his gaze onto the Headmaster, but does not answer. He will wait, and he will listen, and maybe the man will even tell him the truth. Maybe. He isn't going to hold his breath on it.

Dumbledore, like Severus, is used to his not speaking, and takes his slight acknowledgement for what it is – a silent signal to continue. "It saddens me that you were placed in such a position – I had no idea that Quirrel was into such things. You have been, of course, completely exonerated in his death."

Here his eyes widen in shock that he has been let off without even being investigated, followed swiftly by his brow furrowing in confusion. What Quirrel had been into…? Placed in such a position…?

But Dumbledore is not done. "Various Healers who have had experiences with such things have assured me that sleeping in room full of other males would not be in your best interest, so you have been delegated a personal room in the Ravenclaw tower."

His confusion is only growing. What one Earth is the old fool talking about?!

"Madame Pomphrey assures me that Quirrel did not manage to actually take it too far, but we feel we should take every precaution for your continued mental stability."

…he wondered bewilderedly if Dumbledore would start making sense anytime soon.

Luckily, before Dumbledore can continue, Severus walks in and pulls the man aside. He watches them argue softly for a few moments before turning his gaze back to the ceiling. At least _it_ made sense.

* * *

It is Halloween, and Quirrel is dead.

He now knows what Dumbledore was going on about, thanks to Severus. He is amused by the thought that Dumbledore believes he would let such a man _touch_ him like that, but he also supposes that is why he has been pardoned for the man's murder.

Not that anyone else knows the man is dead.

He's just …_missing_.

He likes having his own room again. His spiders definitely appreciate being allowed near him without the risk of getting squished. And the large female python has moved in with him again.

Her moods alternate between irritable and mothering, and he feels strangely honored when she _finally_ tells him her name is Nagini.

His previous dorm-mates gripe about favoritism, whine and bitch and moan about how _it wasn't fair_. They _all _follow him around, taunting and hexing and generally being annoying.

Two of the five boys have already had extreme accidents, none of which can be tied to him. One of those two had to be transferred to St. Mungos for the rest of the year. Severus berates him for it, but Nagini hisses approvingly and offers to teach him more interesting methods for silencing those that annoy him.

He thinks he really likes Nagini. He feels strangely connected to her – like his magic has been somehow irrevocably tied to the aura that clings to her. It bothers him sometimes, but he learns to deal with it.

It's not like such a situation was ever going to happen again, after all.

* * *

**Poor Harry, just wait until next year. Then you get Tom, the basilisk, and our mystery Horcrux, all in one go. Lol.**

**And it strikes me that I'm inadvertently setting up a very strange family for Harry – Daddy!Aragog and Mommy!Nagini. Huh. How about that?**


End file.
